


your eyes tell

by predebut



Category: ENHYPEN (Band), TOMORROW X TOGETHER | TXT (Korea Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Future Fic, Lee Heeseung-centric (ENHYPEN), M/M, One-Sided Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-14 09:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28918641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/predebut/pseuds/predebut
Summary: Witnessing the metamorphosis of a trainee to idol firsthand shifted something within Heeseung. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d been stagnant for all those months, treading water to merely stay afloat instead of rising with the tides. Even his top rankings as a trainee—being the ace, being number one—started to take on a hollow ring.These are the things that are hard for Heeseung to forget.(Or: Heeseung faces an old grudge against Choi Beomgyu, and uncovers something new from it)
Relationships: Choi Beomgyu/Lee Heeseung
Comments: 50
Kudos: 126





	1. walk the line

**Author's Note:**

> many thanks to r for betaing, k for coming up with the beomseung agenda with me, and r for reminding me that i'm not the only txtha tinhatter out there <3\. i started writing this before the nyel performances/selcas and never expected beomgyu to [actually mention](https://www.vlive.tv/post/1-20859157?&begin=413) heeseung's name (!!)
> 
> **notes:**  
>  \- this is set in late 2021, so i tagged it as "future fic"  
> \- mathyung means "oldest hyung"  
> \- fic/chapter titles come from the bts/enhypen songs of the same names, respectively
> 
> **change-log:**  
>  \- 1/25/21: changed "SNS" to "Twitter" based on feedback from hwl

the ideal burns in you like a fever.  
Or not like a fever, like a second heart.  
— _October_ , Louise Glück

—

When the new subunit is announced— _a BigHit supergroup, combining Tomorrow X Together’s maknae-line with Enhypen’s hyung-line_ —everyone’s reactions to the news look a bit different.

Heeseung will never forget it. The quiet anticipation in the air, one second before the drop. Being able to catalog everyone’s minute change of expressions underneath their masks: Sunghoon’s wary frown, Jake’s eyebrows shooting upwards in excitement, and Jongseong looking back at him, trying to gauge something unknown from Heeseung’s face.

They’re all staring at him, actually, Heeseung realizes. It sends a nervous thrill down his spine, a marker of things to come.

Later, when they head back to the dorms, Jake will turn to him, leaning over the armrest. Sunghoon listens quietly in the seat in front of them, Jongseong’s light snores punctuating the silence.

And Jake will ask what they’ve all been thinking about: “Aren’t you excited, hyung? You trained with Tomorrow by Together-sunbaenim, right?”

—

Most of Enhypen members have retold their first impressions of the other members so often that the spoken story overwrites the actual memory. After all, there’s usually nothing incidental to meeting another trainee, no premonition of debuting together. Boys came and went as a fact of life, then, and so they received just another wary welcome instead.

As a result of having been at BigHit the longest, Heeseung often comes up as the trainee that the others met on their first day. But Heeseung himself rarely talks about his own first day, the people that _he_ had been introduced to.

Because before Heeseung had first shown Jongseong his popping or greeted that new figure skater trainee for the first time, before Jongseong had lent Jungwon manwon so that he could make it back home, there had been this:

“I’m Kang Taehyun,” one of the trainees said, introducing himself. His gaze was direct, eagle-eyed, but his smile seemed friendly enough. Taehyun had led him around, proceeding to point out everyone of importance: Soobin and Kai, who basically operated as a single unit; Wooyoung, one of the best dancers; and then, of course, Yeonjun.

“And here are the trainee rankings,” Taehyun told him. He gestured to the list offhandedly, casual about it in a way that betrayed its importance. Yeonjun’s name, in particular, decorated the top: as ridiculously perfect as the girl from his middle school class who had ranked first in all her subjects.

Heeseung joined BigHit at a time of constant flux. As a new trainee, he wasn’t in consideration for the debut lineup. He still felt the side effects of the pressure nonetheless, a lingering bitter aftertaste. What little awe he felt after watching Yeonjun sing, what little kindness Taehyun had extended to him during those first weeks, those were the bright spots back then.

While Heeseung filmed his first I-Land interview, he had tried to explain how precarious it had been. Being surrounded by trainees who had already given their all, everyone in such high tensions because of the new debut group forming. The oddness of meeting so many boys on his first day then, just a couple months later, looking around and realizing that barely any of them had stayed on: while a special few had been chosen for debut, the rest left for other agencies, other opportunities. As though he'd slept past his alarm in the morning, chasing after a missed bus, he had been panting and out of breath and resigned to waiting for yet another cycle.

Heeseung had known, then, what he had to do. It burned in him like nothing else he’d ever felt before, scorching hot and all-consuming. He’d set his mind on being number one. On meeting that asymptotic standard he might never reach—nor wasn’t sure even existed.

—

They begin preparing for the album right away. Recording songs in the studio is simple enough, and Heeseung doesn’t really see much of the TXT members outside of Taehyun waving at him as they pass in the hall. A week and a half passes like this, a steady stream of days during which Heeseung focuses on his vocals and not much else. The whole time, he studiously keeps his gaze to the ground to prevent his eyes from catching on something he might dislike.

But too soon, before Heeseung can truly steel himself for it, their new subunit drives out to the countryside for a photoshoot. In insistence of “subunit bonding,” they’ve split evenly among their groups age-wise.

Which means, of course, that Heeseung has to ride in the same van as Beomgyu and Jongseong for the next three hours. It’s kind of hard to avoid looking at someone who’s sitting right across from him, especially when it’s _Choi Beomgyu,_ but Heeseung tries his best. He feigns sleep and tries to avoid cringing at Jongseong’s earnest conversational attempts with Beomgyu, only relaxing once it inevitably peters out.

At the actual album shoot, it’s much easier to distance himself subtly, without anyone really catching on. Heeseung’s closer to Taehyun and Kai, after all; no one has ever questioned why he has such a preference for them when Beomgyu’s his same-aged “friend.”

Heeseung is grateful for that. During lunch he hides his smile behind the palm of his hand as usual, makes sure his eyes skip right past the person who unintentionally impacts him the most. Even if that person laughs the loudest, is the easiest to pay attention to, a bright billboard sign screaming _look at me._

He doesn’t want to think about it at all, really. Heeseung is supposed to be the “fun” hyung, no longer intimidating to the others; he’s mellowed out and everything. And at twenty-one years old, he should be well past the point of petty schoolboy grudges.

—

Back when they were filming I-Land, there was one thing Heeseung truly struggled with, more than the usual singing or dancing. And sure, he lost plenty of sleep in his attempts to side-step the older trainees' politics during the show too. But what he toiled over the most was aegyo. It’s understandable, really. For all of the facial expression lessons he received at BigHit, the instructors never seemed to place much emphasis on being _cute._

As such, preparing for Chamber 5 had been a completely new challenge. He couldn’t go all out the way Sunoo did, with smiles and laughter instead of furiously-focused intensity; his grin in the practice room mirrors seemed strained, almost forced.

“How do you do it so easily?” Heeseung asked Sunoo, when they took a break during practice. “Being cute.”

They leaned against the wall. The week before this, Heeseung had been in the exact same practice room. Had felt the same panic, yet was much more in his element as they’d prepared to perform Fake Love. On the other side of the room, Jake filmed Sunghoon’s facial expressions for monitoring later on, Sunghoon laughing more readily than usual because of who was behind the camera.

It was the ease of it, in particular, that had frustrated Heeseung so much. For Heeseung, next to nothing had ever come to him second-nature. He put in twice as much effort to look like he hadn’t been trying at all, more work to avoid seeing belabored.

Sunoo—eighteen at the time and quietly confident, already so responsive to the cameras—couldn’t have been further from that.

Heeseung watched as Sunoo observed Sunghoon from across the room. It took a couple of moments for Sunoo to turn back and face him fully.

“It’s simple, hyung,” Sunoo replied. He ran a hand through his hair, then shook out his bangs with a small smile. “You just need to let go.”

“Let go?” Heeseung asked. Before he could continue the thread of thought any further, Jake called them both over. In the midst of preparations and rehearsals, Heeseung never had the chance to repeat his question.

But he still remembers thinking, a little frustrated, that he’d probably let go of anything—if only he knew what he was grasping onto in the first place.

—

But still, despite Heeseung trying to be a good person, that doesn’t erase the facts: Choi Beomgyu is pretty damn annoying. It’s funny how the same maknae-like tendencies, the penchant for ringing laughter and blinking wide-eyed at Taehyun’s blunt replies, seem so charming in people like Sunoo yet so vacuous to him right now. He does a decent job of hiding it until the end of the photoshoot, though.

That’s what Heeseung thinks, at least, until Jongseong turns to him as soon as they reach back at the dorms and asks, “Why are you so awkward with Beomgyu-hyung?”

Heeseung blinks. Knows, vaguely, that he should give some sort of denial or at least try to salvage the situation. Behind Jongseong, Sunghoon’s lips are pressed together in a flat line. Dance practice begins tomorrow, and anything that comes in the way of that is a concern for him. Jake’s open-mouthed with shock beside Sunghoon; he usually doesn’t catch onto these things. Not in the same way Jongseong often feels like a smoke alarm sensing when Heeseung is just about to self-implode, smothering the incoming flames with his own brand of nagging comfort.

But it’s been a long day, and Heeseung’s ears are filled with Beomgyu’s inane chatter, the warm up and down cadences of his voice as he had teased Jake: _ah, this is why they say you’re like a puppy, hm?_

“Don’t worry about it,” Heeseung replies firmly. The same sort of deflection he uses whenever the members’ conversations start to stray off topic during V Lives. Light glancing off a mirror, a lake refusing to reveal its depths. “We’ve worked hard today, we all need to rest before practice tomorrow.”

“You couldn’t even look at him, hyung,” Jongseong continues, glancing over at Sunghoon and Jake for support. “Three hours in the van together, and it was like he wasn’t even there. We were just curious, really.”

“There’s nothing to be curious about,” Heeseung insists. He briefly considers throwing Jongseong’s words back at him, casting that same harsh light on the past instead: a year has gone by, but that doesn’t mean Heeseung has forgotten how awkward Jongseong used to be with some of the others. Disinterested, tight-lipped smiles easing into something more genuine over the span of _months,_ not hours.

But he’s Enhypen's mathyung, the responsible one, and Jongseong’s his oldest friend. So instead Heeseung turns away from all three of them, and gets ready for bed.

—

Jungwon approaches him as soon as he exits the bathroom. “Hyung,” he says, taking Heeseung’s hand and tugging on it gently. “Sleep in my bed tonight.”

There’s a determined look in Jungwon’s eyes, like he won’t back down or say no for an answer. It’s obvious that Jongseong put him up to this—for if Jongseong and him are opposites, sometimes clashing and opposed, then Jungwon is the focal point that brings them together—but Heeseung doesn’t mind. Their relationship has always been one of compromises: between older and younger, feeler and thinker, leader and follower.

“Sure,” Heeseung agrees easily, even if it’s been months since Jungwon or Riki have spent the night with him. During I-Land it’d been a near-weekly occurrence for Jungwon: they used to talk to each other until 6 AM, waiting late into the night so that they could take off their microphones and finally whisper their worries to each other.

There are still water droplets running down the back of his neck when he settles in beside Jungwon, the fresh dampness of his skin keeping him alert. Jungwon faces him, careful and warm. His eyes glint with unabashed curiosity in the dim room, reflecting what little light seeps in through the door.

“How’s it going with the subunit, hyung?” Jungwon asks in a hushed whisper. He rests a steady hand on Heeseung’s shoulder.

Heeseung closes his eyes. Riki and Sunoo are already fast asleep across the room from them, soft exhales blending in with the purring air-conditioning unit. Jongseong’s in the shower, no doubt. Outside, Jake and Sunghoon are still talking, Jake’s earnest laughter muffled from far away. All these people he’s accustomed himself to over the past year, melting away residual animosity and tension from I-Land and forging new bonds.

“I’m not sure,” Heeseung says, choosing his words carefully. “We’re still getting to know each other.” He should be used to this, by now: working with new people, looking over at people he’s competed against and being told _you guys are a group now._ But there’s a difference between Sunghoon and Jongseong and Jungwon—held together by shared trainee memories—and the TXT members, who had seemed just out of reach for a long time.

Jungwon’s silent for a couple moments. “Are you doing alright?” he continues. “Jongseong-hyung seemed worried—”

“He shouldn’t worry,” Heeseung interrupts, startled into opening his eyes. “There’s no need to stress out, Jungwon-ah.” Outside of his regular duties as an idol, this is one of the things Heeseung tries the hardest at—making sure he’s dependable for the younger members, ensuring that his vulnerabilities don’t slip through and affect the others. “Don’t you have school to focus on?”

That had been part of the reasoning behind the whole subunit in the first place, after all. Heeseung still remembers the condensed explanation management had given them: Enhypen’s youngest members, still minors, have school and working-hour restrictions; TXT’s youngest members still lag in popularity compared to Soobin and Yeonjun. Hopefully, the collaboration would be an opportunity to fuse TXT’s domestic popularity and Enhypen’s international fanbase in some synergistic mix.

“Yah, hyung,” Jungwon protests, sheepish as always whenever Heeseung reminds him that he’s a kid. He presses his face against Heeseung’s shoulder, and Heeseung can feel Jungwon’s smile through the material of his t-shirt. “I’m still your leader.”

“I know you are,” Heeseung replies. He runs a hand over the back of Jungwon’s hair, and wonders, not for the first time, how he’s managed to find so much support in a boy three years apart from him. Like this, soft and vulnerable, Heeseung is reminded of just how young Jungwon is—eighteen and clear-headed, shouldering the burdens of others so well.

He’s determined to not add to that heavy load. “But, Jungwon-ah, don’t worry,” Heeseung continues. “It’s a good opportunity. I’ll be able to grow from this.”

That, at least, is true enough. It’s the same thing Heeseung had told himself during summer training camp last year, when he had pushed himself to the peak of his abilities. When he’d been separated from his phone and family, barely able to keep track of the way time passed outside of recording his video logs.

Jungwon’s still relaxed against his shoulder when he sighs in reply. He stays quiet for so many minutes afterward that Heeseung almost thinks that he’s fallen asleep.

“This isn’t one of your interviews,” Jungwon says finally. “You can be honest with me, you know.” A couple more seconds of silence, as Heeseung stares at the thin band of light shining into the room and wonders how to respond.

Jungwon finally gives up. He rolls over, back facing Heeseung instead, an implicit message that he’s done for the night. Heeseung mirrors him, so that they’re lying the way they always do: backs pressed together, facing outward on both sides.

He listens to Jungwon’s breathing, his measured exhales softening as he settles into sleep. Heeseung’s heart pounds in his chest. If he can’t admit the truth to his closest friend, hidden in the safety of the darkness with their blankets shrouding the two of them from the rest of the world, then—

Then, Heeseung wonders if he ever will.

—

Their first dance practice is a disaster. Granted, they’re all professionals—Heeseung doesn’t think anything can match the uncoordinated chaos from the beginning of I-Land—but he’s fairly certain that even Enhypen’s initial rehearsals of Given-Taken went better than this. And that had been _before_ any of the members had really gotten to know each other.

But maybe being strangers is better than the type of knowing that exists between the TXT and Enhypen members, Heeseung thinks. Stilted, awkward politeness. They’ve been going through the chorus for hours now. Everyone’s sweaty and exhausted, but it’s the unsatisfying sort of tiredness that results from knowing that they’ve put in the effort without anything coming to fruition.

Sunghoon nudges him while they restart the music once again. “Watch Kai,” he whispers, brows furrowed in concern.

It doesn’t take long for Heeseung to notice what’s off—a slight shift in the choreography, something detail-oriented Sunghoon picks up on easily, something that Taehyun might’ve noticed if his attention wasn’t directed towards the opposite side of the room. He catches Sunghoon’s gaze again, that moment of implicit understanding followed by his silent reassurance that he’d take the fall.

“Kai-yah,” Heeseung calls out once the music stops again. Kai turns to him, offering an earnest smile so readily. From there, it’s easy for him to slip into his role as a helpful hyung, pointing out the small details so it can get corrected. Heeseung can feel a stare washing down his neck all the while, but he figures it’s just Sunghoon or Taehyun being watchful again and ignores it.

“Thanks, hyung,” Sunghoon whispers to him, after. He rubs the back of his neck, seemingly sheepish. “Maybe I should’ve been the one to tell him—”

“It’s fine, Sunghoon-ah,” Heeseung replies. He senses the same eyes on the back of his neck again, turns his head to catch the tail end of Beomgyu’s gaze. What does he want? Heeseung faces Sunghoon again, claps his hand onto Sunghoon’s shoulder. “I’ll look out for you.” It’s difficult, navigating this awkwardness, this conflict between sunbaes and same-aged friends.

After a couple more hours, their practice wraps up. “Come on, everyone sit down,” Taehyun says once their instructors leave. They gather together in a circle on the practice room floor, sitting cross-legged with their knees knocking together.

Heeseung makes sure to surround himself on both sides: Jake rests his sweat-soaked forehead on Heeseung’s left shoulder, and Jongseong sits, spine straight, on Heeseung’s right. A little belatedly, he realizes his mistake—by keeping the Enhypen members close at hand, he finds himself directly across from Beomgyu. They don’t look at each other, but Heeseung sees his beaten-up white sneakers in the corner of his vision and _knows,_ anyways.

“How’d you guys think practice went today?” Taehyun asks them. Management decided that Taehyun could serve as an unofficial leader— _better him than me,_ had been Heeseung’s thought at the time—and true to form, he suits the role well.

Without the reverb of their promotional single, the practice room’s silence seems even louder. Jake sighs into Heeseung’s side. Jongseong fidgets, bouncing his knee up and down against the wooden floor, clearly anxious to speak out as always.

“Anyone?” Taehyun continues, turning from member to member.

Heeseung touches Jongseong’s shoulder briefly in encouragement, giving him the silent push that normally wouldn’t be so necessary in their normal group. He doesn’t miss Beomgyu’s eyes tracking the movement.

“Uh, today was kind of bad,” Jongseong says bluntly. He pauses, considering. “Well—not even kind of. Just bad.”

Jongseong’s words hang in the air for a second, heavy with the weight of truth. But then Kai lets out a startled giggle, nervous and well-meaning, and that’s what finally breaks the tension between all of them: Jake’s the first to join in laughter, Sunghoon following after with a quiet chuckle, and soon enough they’re all smiling awkwardly at each other in a way that only these idol bonds—forged from convenience and persistence, out of need more than anything else—can necessitate.

“Alright, alright,” Taehyun says once the laughter has settled down a little. The corners of his mouth lift up in a smile, and he looks almost satisfied. “I’m glad we’re all in agreement here. Now—what can we do to make the practice better?”

This time the quiet is more comfortable, colored by people thinking of what to say instead of holding back their thoughts. At least it seems that way, until Beomgyu opens his mouth.

“Speak out.” Beomgyu faces Kai as he talks, but it’s clear his words are directed somewhere else. “Don’t hide behind your oldest for support.”

Jake lifts his head off Heeseung’s shoulder at that. The sweat-soaked imprint where Jake’s forehead had rested feels damp against his skin. A clammy sort of nervousness, now.

Heeseung hadn’t known Beomgyu’s careful, chilling stares would lead to _this._ The surprise of it simmers under his skin.

Taehyun rolls his eyes, the reaction a beat too slow to be natural. “Yah, when have you supported me, hyung?” he says: an uneasy joke. It’s followed by a couple of pity giggles from Kai, but he quickly falls silent.

Everyone knows that’s not what Beomgyu had meant.

Taehyun clears his throat. “But seriously, Beomgyu-hyung is right. It’s important to be honest with each other. We’re all around the same age.” He pauses, and for some reason he looks over at Heeseung when he adds: “We can’t get anywhere if we don’t treat each other like equals.”

—

The day “Crown” was released—the day that BigHit’s new boy group, Tomorrow X Together, made their debut—all the trainees clustered around after practice to devour the music video together. As an idol, Heeseung’s used to reacting to his own music videos. He knows how to play up his emotions for entertainment now, that fine balancing point between exaggeration and overdoing it. But back then, every gasp of awe and sigh of envy coming from the trainees had been completely genuine and unamplified. Of course the music video for Crown impressed them so much. How could it not, when the members prepared to debut for two years?

“Wow,” one of them said, once the song finally stopped. “They seem so…”

“Different,” Heeseung finished the sentence for him. Like real idols, like stars. All of the trainees looked around at each other then, at their rough, plain faces that shone only from eagerness and sweat. None of them were unattractive, but there was something inherently ugly in their desperation regardless.

The practice room seemed almost suffocating, in that moment.

Alone, Heeseung would rewatch the music video again and again. Each time he noticed something different—Kai’s cute smile, Taehyun’s bright-eyed expression, Yeonjun’s vocals—but most of all, his eyes caught upon Choi Beomgyu and his lovely, delicate face. The way he fit in seamlessly with the others, a beating heart in service to a pulsing whole.

He practiced the choreography so much that it felt near drilled into his muscles. The moves sank in bone-deep, swam in the marrow of it. “Crown” was best suited for dancing together, for collaboration, but the other trainees—all newer than him, all oblivious to what he had gone through—didn’t understand as much.

Even Jongseong, who at times knew him without words, had joined BigHit a month or two too late. By then, Heeseung rarely caught glimpses of Taehyun or Kai around the building; busy with debut preparations, they seemed distant, part of something separate and larger than life.

Witnessing the metamorphosis of a trainee to idol firsthand shifted something within Heeseung. He couldn’t help but feel as if he’d been stagnant for all those months, treading water to merely stay afloat instead of rising with the tides. Even his top rankings as a trainee— _being the ace, being number one_ —started to take on a hollow ring. Some newer boys were hesitant to approach him because of it. So Heeseung redoubled his efforts, overcoming his natural introversion, in that respect as well.

These are the things that are hard for Heeseung to forget. Maybe this is why Taehyun had looked over at him so carefully, why Beomgyu had spoken so bluntly. Out of the Enhypen members, Heeseung is the oldest and he’s trained the longest. It shouldn’t be surprising that he has the most things to let go of, too.

—

Late at night, Jake begins to prepare their favorite instant ramen without asking Heeseung in advance. That’s how he knows it’s been an especially rough day. He guesses that everyone’s still thinking about the aftermath of the first practice; he can’t exactly shake off the weight of Taehyun’s words, himself. It hadn’t been easy for any of them, albeit in different ways.

Heeseung sits at the counter and watches Jake heat up the water. It’s been months since Jake has had to stay back after rehearsals, making up for his short training period by cramming extra practice into his schedule, but today’s choreography had been exceptionally difficult.

They’re both quiet, naturally so. It isn’t awkward like this, not when they know the other members are trying to sleep in the next room over. There’s something about Jake, his earnest attentiveness and gentle manners, that sets Heeseung at ease.

Jake only starts to speak once he’s slid a portion of the instant ramen over to Heeseung’s side of the kitchen counter.

“What Beomgyu-hyung said,” he begins, biting down on his lower lip. “I was thinking about it.”

Heeseung busies himself with slurping down the ramen to avoid having to formulate a response. The broth is scalding hot, but at least it gives him time to think.

“It was out of the blue,” Heeseung replies carefully. It had been _unwarranted,_ honestly. But he’s wary of letting his irritation show through so quickly, not after his last conversation with Jongseong had turned confrontational.

“I don’t know.” Jake hesitates. Heeseung can already tell he isn’t going to like what follows. “Is it a burden for you, hyung? Being the—”

“No, it isn’t,” Heeseung interrupts. “Seriously, don’t worry about it.” He isn’t sure what Jake would’ve tacked on to the end of that statement. Being the eldest? The ace? He doesn’t know what he’d prefer, either.

He relaxes his jaw, trying to release the tension he’d been unintentionally building up over the course of the day.

“Beomgyu doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Heeseung continues. He makes his voice all calm and warm, the same tone he reserves for fansigns. _This isn’t one of your interviews, hyung._ “He was just”—Heeseung pauses as he casts about for the proper word—“making assumptions.” Never mind whether Beomgyu had managed to land close to home or not: he’d still been presumptuous in a way Heeseung can’t stand for.

Jake doesn’t take another bite of the ramen, just pushes the noodles back and forth with his chopsticks as he stares down at the counter.

“Sometimes outsiders can see things the most clearly,” Jake replies, finally lifting up his head to regard Heeseung directly. Out of all the members, his soft concern feels the warmest, the most approachable. He sounds almost resigned as he adds, “You know that, hyung.”

They finish up their late night ramen in silence. All the while, Heeseung recalls every instance he had felt Beomgyu’s eyes on him, Jake’s careful phrasing: _see things the most clearly._ Like Sunoo’s words to him back in I-Land, it’s another thing he’ll have to untangle eventually, with time.

—

At practice, the members finally begin to get along when the choreography presents a new challenge. There’s a stunt during the bridge of the song that requires Heeseung and Beomgyu to support each other, their backs pressed together, in the center of the formation. It’s tricky; both of them have to move in sync, have to _trust_ each other in order to pull it off.

They try it once, twice, stumbling each time.

“Come on, let’s give it another try, Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu says easily after his second fall. He claps his hands together, seemingly unbothered. His elbows are reddened, sure to form bruises if he keeps stumbling.

So they attempt it again. Restart the music, the same thudding counts in his head, and _go_ —

Another fail. Heeseung is starting to become used to falling in the same spots, nursing the same old aches. Beomgyu doesn’t land quite as gracefully this time, twisting to his side with a quiet hiss. He isn’t smiling anymore.

Beomgyu looks over at Taehyun, almost helpless, his face an open mirror of his emotions. Heeseung categorizes every fleeting expression with an almost distanced fascination: annoyance, confusion, curiosity, anger.

After a couple of moments—which feel much longer than that—Beomgyu turns back to Heeseung and says, “Hey, can you give me a moment?”

Jongseong and Sunghoon take him aside for a second, too. Sunghoon’s face is impassive, worried into careful blankness.

Meanwhile, Jongseong—Jongseong looks bothered. No, it’s worse than that, Heeseung decides: Jongseong’s confused, like he’s facing some mystery he can’t understand. Jongseong always needs explanations for things, some sort of justification, and Heeseung wants more than anything right now to leave him empty-handed.

“It’s about trust, hyung,” Sunghoon is telling him. He looks over at Jongseong for backup. “You just need to put your faith in Beomgyu-hyung for a couple of moments. He’s doing the same with you.”

Heeseung knows he should be able to do it, that he should be able to let go and place his trust against Beomgyu’s back instead. He had done it, with some pushing, on I-Land. This is what being an idol requires, what _professionalism_ requires.

What is he if he can’t even do his job?

Despite all of this, a part of him can’t help but look at Choi Beomgyu—pink-cheeked with frustration, determined brown eyes—and think, _I don’t trust him as far as I can throw him._ Another glance, this time at Beomgyu’s nervous, delicate hands as he talks to Kai, showy fragility hiding an iron will: _maybe not even as much as that._

Jongseong steps closer to Heeseung, leaning in so that his voice can be heard. “What’s your deal with Beomgyu-hyung?” Jongseong asks in an undertone. “I thought you guys didn’t know each other.”

That’s the point, Heeseung wants to say. But instead he shakes his head. “I don’t.” He isn’t sure what more to add.

The sensation of Beomgyu’s back against his own had felt oddly excruciating. Heeseung is long past the point of touch meaning anything: he’s distanced himself from the idea of his body as something that still belongs to him; he’s managed to catalogue its flaws so clinically over the years. But still, it had set a fire in his veins that he doesn’t know how to extinguish.

“Let hyung fix this,” Heeseung continues, looking directly at Jongseong in particular. He isn’t sure how, exactly, but he’d do anything to erase the frowns from Sunghoon’s and Jongseong’s faces. “Alright?”

They move on from that portion of the choreography for now, but the instructor warns them they’ll have to try it again tomorrow. Heeseung sneaks a glance at Beomgyu, at his frustrated frown, and wonders if his initial irritation towards Beomgyu had been masking something else all along—something worse.

—

“Heeseung-hyung,” Taehyun says, tapping on his shoulder just as he’s about to leave the practice room. “Stay back. Let’s talk.” They find one of the rooms meant for individual practice, the type that Heeseung likes to sit in with the lights turned down low when he’s lost in thought.

“I’m guessing this isn’t just to catch up?” Heeseung asks once they’ve sat down. They’re side by side against the wall, facing the mirror opposite to them. Heeseung observes their reflections—twin images, copies—and wonders whether he’s subconsciously mimicking Taehyun’s straight-backed posture.

“You could say that,” Taehyun replies.

More silence. Heeseung hasn’t sat like this with Taehyun in a long time, not since his first monthly evaluation at the initial BigHit building. It’d been three moves ago, back when all of the trainees shared one practice room. He remembers how they’d all line up against the wall, like sitting ducks, waiting their turn to record in front of an impersonal camera.

It’s all he had known for years.

“What’s your problem with Beomgyu-hyung?” Taehyun finally asks. Their eyes meet in the mirror.

Heeseung turns his head away, regarding Taehyun’s side profile without the reflection instead. “What do you mean?”

“You _know_ what I mean, hyung.” Taehyun drops the pretenses, straightforward as ever. “Do you have an issue with him, or anything like that?” When Heeseung doesn’t reply after a couple of moments, he continues. “I know getting along can be—”

“It’s nothing like that.” Heeseung swallows. They’re comfortable with each other, but he hasn’t ever discussed _interpersonal_ concerns with Taehyun. It’s usually just friendly small talk, rote encouragement. A selca for the fans, because they knew each other when they were raw, unfinished idols in the making. “We just. We don’t know each other, Taehyun-ah. We aren’t close.”

Taehyun shifts to meet Heeseung’s gaze head-on. No longer looking through the mirror, but right at each other, instead. “And you prefer it that way.”

“I—” Heeseung finds himself at a loss for words, being questioned so directly like this. “It’s not like that.”

“I’ve always wondered, I guess,” Taehyun continues, even-toned. There’s something about the objectivity in his voice, the sheer neutrality of it, that makes Heeseung feel even more exposed. Ashamed, even, that such a small thing could be made so obvious. “But it’s different knowing it for real.”

Heeseung sighs as he casts about for something, _anything_ constructive to say. “I’ll make sure we get along, Taehyun-ah.”

“I hope you do.” Taehyun tilts his head, considering. His eyes sharp like a knife as he says: “Honestly, hyung—you have more in common with him than you might think.”

Heeseung remains there, by himself, for a couple minutes after Taehyun leaves. He listens to the quiet in and out of his own breathing, considers his reflection in the mirror. Normally this would be the point at which he’d try and take a selca or two for the day, upload it onto SNS, but right now he just scrutinizes himself instead. He wonders what Taehyun thinks he shares with Choi Beomgyu, a person so seemingly different from him.

—

Heeseung truly does make an effort of being more objective, less irrational. He’s done so ever since summer training camp, during those difficult weeks spent isolated from the outside world, when he had been prone to getting consumed by his thoughts if he didn’t focus on the facts.

Here are some semi-objective truths:

One: Lee Heeseung entered BigHit over four years ago, at the end of February way back in 2017. At first, he’d been a terrible dancer, a mediocre singer; he understood why he wasn’t even considered for the debut lineup.

Two: Choi Beomgyu, scouted from Daegu, joined BigHit merely a few weeks later, in the middle of March. Heeseung hadn’t known any of this right away, but the rumors around him grew stronger and stronger when management added him to the debut lineup immediately. Beomgyu had been chosen over so many others: Wonjin, the same age as both him and Heeseung but two years more experienced; Yeosang and Wooyoung, the dancer hyungs who’d spend their time beside Yeonjun; over Heeseung, even. Everyone speculated about this new trainee, the one who’d managed to land a debut so effortlessly, but Heeseung knew the truth as soon as he glimpsed Beomgyu for himself.

There’s no way around it. Beomgyu had been—still _is,_ obviously—outrageously pretty. Beautiful, even, in a way that didn’t require makeup or styling, that didn’t depend on whether he had remembered to stop eating late night snacks or keep himself hydrated throughout the day.

Looking at his face, Heeseung had the impression that Beomgyu’s worst days seemed better than some of Heeseung’s best ones. He hid it deep down, but in all honesty, it bothered him. He’d wanted to be an idol because of his love for singing, and he had never thought about his appearance much. At the time there’d been nothing more frustrating than something he didn’t known how to fix.

Three: Beomgyu—Choi Beomgyu, that guitar-playing Daegu ulzzang—was as much of a natural born idol at seventeen as Heeseung is at twenty-one.

If there’s one thing Heeseung has learned over the years, though, it’s that things don’t need to come _naturally_ to him in order to be meaningful. Put in enough effort, and it’ll eventually show up. Like sifting for gold at the bottom of a river, like a stream wearing a jagged rock down into a smooth pebble: enough time, enough trying, and maybe he can make something precious out of it.

Maybe that’s why Taehyun’s words had seemed so ludicrous. Heeseung had stayed in the same practice rooms for three years as Beomgyu’s life changed so rapidly. He’d forced his body into dance, fixed his vocal technique, and altered himself to appeal as much as he possibly could to any outside person. As Beomgyu scrambled to catch up to Taehyun and the others, as Beomgyu debuted and sang about _horns sprouting from his head,_ as Beomgyu performed at concerts and lived the same dream he’d been working towards—Heeseung had focused on himself.

But here’s another truth.

Four: When Heeseung is hooked on something—on _someone_ —he doesn’t know how to forget about it.

—

Heeseung can sense it from a mile away. It isn’t difficult to intuit Beomgyu’s position in the room from his tinkling laugh or bickering banter with Taehyun. Heeseung’s usually aware of him in the back of his mind as they practice, like a particularly aggravating sixth sense. He refuses to consider the other implications of that, but at the very least it clues him into the fact that Beomgyu is _up_ to something.

That’s why, when Beomgyu turns to him and says, “Heeseung-ah, let’s stay after and run over the choreography together,” he doesn’t feel too surprised.

He doesn’t miss the way Beomgyu looks over at Taehyun afterwards, either, like Beomgyu has accomplished a special mission just by virtue of talking to him. So be it.

In some ways it’s almost inevitable, that all of his careful avoidance could lead to this: the one idolhood ultimatum he can’t back down from. There’s still a little tremor of nervousness running down his spine, but he pushes it aside and nods in agreement.

—

“I know you’re better than this, Heeseung-ah.” Beomgyu steps closer, his eyes shining with barely-contained frustration. His presence seems to flood the room, making Heeseung feel like the walls might burst at the seams.

Heeseung doesn’t back down, though, even as Beomgyu leans in even closer. It’s well past the realm of politeness, now, but they’ve never been the usual friendly acquaintances anyways. They’re nearly the same height, seeing each other eye to eye; Heeseung refuses to look away.

“I’ve seen you dance,” Beomgyu continues, gaze briefly dipping down Heeseung’s body before returning back to his face. “I know you can do it.” Heeseung remembers how he’d noticed Beomgyu’s eyes on him before, and doesn't doubt those words. It makes him flush a little despite himself. Makes him wonder how he ended up like this—Choi Beomgyu within a foot of his personal space, eyes a storm.

Their extra dance practice had started out civil enough. Beomgyu had encouraged him with an awkward shoulder pat when they failed the stunt the first time. But now they’ve exhausted multiple attempts and still haven’t gotten anywhere.

Heeseung opens his mouth to reply. “I—”

“So what’s stopping you?” Beomgyu interrupts, poking Heeseung’s chest. Before, Beomgyu’s proximity had made his presence resemble a touch; now, the sensation of it—the real thing, so much harsher—jolts him back into reality.

Heeseung grabs Beomgyu’s hand, resisting the urge to hold onto it as he pushes Beomgyu’s fingers away from his body. “Nothing,” he replies. He wonders if Beomgyu knows how his actions come off, if he’s being intentionally touchy. Heeseung’s hyperaware of it. Still, he puts a hand on Beomgyu’s shoulder casually as he repeats himself: “Nothing’s stopping me, Beomgyu-yah.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Beomgyu demands. So Heeseung does the only thing that’s left to do. He replays the music, and they try again: backs pressed against each other— _us against the world_ —some semblance of mutual trust.

This time it works.

“We did it!” Beomgyu holds his hand out for a high-five, and when Heeseung obliges he drags him in for a brief, sweaty half-hug. Heeseng blinks, surprised, but it’s so quick that he almost doesn’t register the sensation of Beomgyu pulling him to his chest.

“Let’s do it again.” The smile Beomgyu sends his way is dizzying, dazzling in its enthusiasm. So irritating, he had once thought. And it _is,_ the way such a small thing can stick in his mind like a catchy melody. Heeseung ducks his head and tries not to contemplate it too much; he’s known of Beomgyu’s beauty before he even truly knew who Choi Beomgyu himself was.

“Again,” Heeseung agrees. They run through the choreography several times, and Heeseung only stops the music when he feels that they’ve done it a sufficient amount.

“Are we good?” Heeseung asks.

Beomgyu shakes his head. “One more time,” he says, pushing his sweaty bangs to the side to reveal his forehead. When he glances over at Heeseung, there’s something in that look—that iron resolve, like he’d be willing to push against the fabric of reality itself in order to bend it to his will—that jogs his memory. _You have more in common with him than you might think._

“Okay,” Heeseung agrees. How could he have forgotten? “One more time.”

Shoes hitting against the floor, sweat shining on their skin, Heeseung thinks he might be getting somewhere with Beomgyu, finally. Like the overwhelming torrent of today had managed to wash over any flimsy mental dams he had constructed before this—it leaves him drowning, breathless, but he doesn’t mind swimming.

—

This is what Heeseung remembers.

Before he graduated high school, his schedule as a trainee had been hectic. Heeseung would train in the afternoons and evenings, practicing until he reached the early hours of the morning. After making it home he’d crash in bed for a couple hours before being woken up ungracefully by his older brother. At school, Heeseung slogged through his classes—he was a mediocre student, only interested in English because of the pop songs he enjoyed singing—until it was time to return to training once again.

But one day, Heeseung stayed too late. It had been an honest mistake: he took a moment of rest in the practice rooms, sat down and promised himself that he’d get back up in _just one minute, honestly._ He’d been so weak-minded back then. Sure enough, a minute passed—and then several more—and he had fallen asleep.

The practice rooms are no comfortable place to spend the night, despite the number of times Heeseung has stumbled upon Soobin and Kai snoozing there. He woke up from a fitful sleep a couple hours later, back aching from resting upon the vinyl floor.

As he scrambled to leave the building—he had enough time to make it home and change, at the very least, if he rushed fast enough—there was one thing he forgot about: the existence of other trainees. One trainee, mainly. The same boy he’d pushed away all thoughts of, not expecting them to seep into his mind.

Heeseung slowed his steps before bumping into Taehyun and Beomgyu, not wanting to get noticed. A couple of months had passed since he last talked to Taehyun, and he’d never known Beomgyu in the first place; he didn’t want to make things awkward. After just a few more blocks he’d have to turn from their path regardless.

Despite the distance, he could still hear their conversation fairly clearly in the early morning streets.

“Have you done your homework?” was what Beomgyu was asking Taehyun. While Taehyun looked ready for school—dressed in his uniform, just like Heeseung should be—Beomgyu still wore the same practice clothes Heeseung had spotted him in nearly twelve hours ago. He must’ve practiced all night, then.

It wasn’t _that_ surprising. Everyone knew Beomgyu had chosen to miss a year of school to compensate for his short training time.

“Of course, hyung,” Taehyun replied. His smile was fond, teasing. “I’m not a slacker.”

“As expected, Taehyun-ah.” Beomgyu rubbed at his eyes, sounding weary as he added, “I wonder if I’ll remember how to do school after a year of just this.”

“You’ll be fine,” Taehyun reassured him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be worth it. The dancing is getting easier, right?”

Beomgyu turned to Taehyun. His face had been shrouded in early morning shadows, but Heeseung still remembers the sheer determination he’d seen that day.

“Not really,” Beomgyu admitted. “But I’ll make it that way, soon.” At the moment, Heeseung had thought it sounded familiar, the tone of his voice. Like the defeat Heeseung faced as he’d repeated the same arm stretches in front of the mirror for months on end, wondering if he’d ever be able to dance well. Like the resolve Heeseung carried with him everywhere.

Heeseung rounded the corner, relieved that he hadn't been noticed. He was thankful he couldn't hear more, as well. How ludicrous it had seemed at the time, to think of himself as similar to _Choi Beomgyu_.

But looking back on it—Heeseung can see their parallel paths: both of them practicing until dawn, separated by walls and members and obligations, yet striving for the same thing, in the end.


	2. cross the line

“You did well today,” Beomgyu tells him once they finally decide to wrap up for the day. They stand—lingering in a way that feels foreign—near the door of the practice room. Heeseung feels the uncomfortable sensation of sweat drying on his skin; he knows that a hot shower awaits him when he reaches the dorms.

But at the same time, something shifted because of their practice. It makes Heeseung want to stay just a little longer.

“Thanks?” Heeseung replies, blinking. He’s used to his competence being expected, not appreciated; it’s strange to be acknowledged like this, so openly, instead of only being questioned when he doesn’t show his best. “You too, Beomgyu-yah.”

“You don’t have to look so surprised.” Beomgyu smiles at him, relaxed. “It’s like no one’s given you a compliment before.”

Not far from the truth, but—“Well, you haven’t,” Heeseung points out. He feels himself fill up with slow-building shame as the words register. It isn’t as though he had _wanted_ Beomgyu to—he ends that train of thought right there.

Beomgyu raises his eyebrows. “And I’m so special, aren’t I?”

Heeseung should—and _does,_ just a little—find Beomgyu irritating. But he should probably stop denying that it’s the type of irritating that he might call cute, under other circumstances.

“I can’t believe you’re the mathyung of our group,” he deflects, watching as a bead of sweat slowly drips down Beomgyu’s neck. “No offense.”

Beomgyu bats his eyelashes shamelessly. Definitely cute, Heeseung thinks. “I just have that youthful charm, huh?”

“Sure, call it that.” Heeseung laughs despite himself, hand over mouth. It’s fun talking to someone so at ease with being charming, so unlike Sunghoon and his awkwardness when he’s called a visual or Jongseong’s clear discomfort when asked to do aegyo. It reminds him of Sunoo, a bit, except there’s a quality to Beomgyu’s smile that sparks something deeper than that.

Beomgyu leans against the wall and crosses his arms. “But what’s it like, being the oldest in Enhypen?”

Heeseung raises his eyebrows at the conversation change, thinking over what to say. He’s been asked this question so many times during interviews. “It’s fine,” he says vaguely.

But Beomgyu’s different from the polite interviewers with their lists of company-approved questions. He isn’t like the Enhypen members, either, who rely on Heeseung’s resilience, and so he doesn’t make the same concessions, either.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Beomgyu notes lightly.

“What thing?”

“Like, this.” Beomgyu schools his features into something emotionless and inscrutable, then drops the act after a couple seconds. “Is that your customer service face or something?”

His tone is teasing and friendly; Heeseung tries his best to respond in kind. “No, I just look like this,” he replies. It’s just a well-worn reflex, that blankness, but Beomgyu had seen right through it anyway.

“Alright,” Beomgyu says, no longer so flippant. He opens his mouth to speak but hesitates.

There’s a long, drawn-out pause as they stare at each other. Beomgyu’s nearly the same height as him, and can see him eye to eye.

Heeseung wonders if it’s time for him to leave, to stop lingering. They’ve reached a mutual understanding; he doesn’t owe Beomgyu anything more. But just because Heeseung isn’t obligated or required to do something doesn’t mean that he won’t do it. He glances away from Beomgyu.

“You know how it—”

“Maybe we should—”

“You go first, Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu says.

Heeseung brings his eyes back to Beomgyu’s open, almost expectant, face before he continues. “Don’t you know how it is, being a hyung?” he asks. “Being the eldest isn’t much different.” Just another thing that hadn’t been natural at first—he’s the youngest child in his family—but he’d accustomed himself to, with time.

Beomgyu grimaces. “I’m barely a hyung to the younger members. I think Taehyun’s more responsible and mature than I am.”

His mention of Taehyun—sweet, pragmatic Taehyun, who had so badly wanted the two of them to get along—encourages Heeseung to reply in earnest.

“No, I get that. Sunghoon says that to me sometimes, too.” He thinks of the late nights he’s spent playing video games with Riki and the way the others always tease him every time he loses his headphones. “But honestly, it’s pretty balanced, our group. Niki helps so much with the choreography and Jungwon—he’s a good leader.”

“But neither of them are in this subunit,” Beomgyu points out. Something in his gaze feels sharp, overwhelming.

Heeseung shifts uncomfortably, crosses his arms so that he mirrors Beomgyu. “What are you trying to get at?” he asks. He remembers Beomgyu’s words, so quietly accusing: _don’t hide behind your oldest for support._ Before, he felt consumed with anger, indignant at what Beomgyu said. But now, after the relief of having succeeded with the choreography, he knows that any sort of actual fight would hurt both ways.

“I’m just _saying,_ ” Beomgyu protests. He reaches out, touches Heeseung’s arm for a brief moment as he flashes him a smile. Beomgyu’s hand is cool against his skin. “I’m not trying to get at anything, it’s just—I wanted to tell you this: I’m the mathyung, Heeseung-ah. You can rely on me too.”

Heeseung hesitates at that. It hasn’t been long since he looked at Beomgyu’s hands and thought, _I don’t trust him._ But today he had seen just what Beomgyu is made of, under that delicate, pretty facade. Today something changed, Beomgyu's directness washing away any put-on pretenses like waves smoothing over imprints on the beach.

So when Heeseung replies, “Sure, Beomgyu-yah,” he says it in his normal voice, unadorned. Just him and his uncomfortable dried sweat and his awkward smile, and he knows he means it.

—

Jake and Sunghoon are still awake when Heeseung arrives back at the dorms, sitting on the living room couch together. They’re in the middle of scrolling through Twitter on their phones, but it’s obvious that they waited up for him; Jake, in particular, usually avoids lingering on the couch before bedtime in order to fall asleep easier.

“How’d the extra practice go?” Sunghoon asks.

“Was everything fine with Beomgyu-hyung?” Jake adds.

Heeseung takes in Sunghoon’s hopeful smile and Jake’s open curiosity. He’s grateful for both of them, their concern especially touching now that he’s finally made a breakthrough with Beomgyu.

He rubs the back of his neck. “It was fine.” Heeseung feels sheepish, honestly, that the members had all gotten so preoccupied with his schoolboy grudges.

Sunghoon raises his eyebrows. “It was _fine,_ ” he echoes. “Are you going to elaborate on that, hyung?”

Jake sits up straighter, clearly excited. “Look at him, he’s smiling,” Jake points out. He turns to Sunghoon, satisfied. “He’s probably best friends with Beomgyu-hyung now or something.”

Way to take things to the extremes. “It’s not like that,” Heeseung protests, eyes widening. “We just—we got the move down, and we talked.”

“You guys _talked,_ ” Sunghoon repeats meaningfully. Heeseung’s starting to get a little annoyed with Sunghoon repeating every other sentence of his. It isn’t like Heeseung _doesn’t_ talk to people, right? “Oh.”

“ _Oh,_ ” Jake continues gravely. His lips twitch at the corners.

Sunghoon’s full-on grinning now. “Ohhh.”

Heeseung squints at the two of them, warring between feeling flustered and downright perplexed. “I’m going to go take a shower,” he decides. It’s too late for this, and he really needs to wash off.

And if remembering Beomgyu’s laughter and Sunghoon’s teasing makes him smile to himself as he lathers up, then, well—no one has to know.

—

“I’m glad you two are getting along now,” Taehyun tells him after the next practice. Across the room, Beomgyu’s trying to tickle Jake while he hides behind Sunghoon for protection.

“Me too,” Heeseung replies. He doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the feeling of satisfaction when they had managed to perform the stunt for the rest of the members and their choreographer. The way Beomgyu had raised his hand for a high-five afterward, holding onto Heeseung’s fingers for a moment too long before letting go.

“What changed, hyung?” Taehyun asks.

Heeseung frowns. “I don’t know.” Or, rather, he does know, but he isn’t sure how best to word it. Beomgyu had treated him as an equal, as _himself,_ not as Heeseung the ace trainee or Heeseung the dependable hyung or any of the roles he’s had to force himself into over the past several years. That isn’t all of it, though, doesn’t encompass what he’d felt as he looked into Beomgyu’s eyes. He finally settles on: “I just think it’s nice talking to someone the same age as me.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Taehyun says. He turns his head, and at first Heeseung thinks he’s watching Beomgyu too. It takes a couple of seconds for him to realize that Taehyun’s watching Sunghoon laugh with Jongseong on the opposite side of the practice room. Taking in Taehyun’s soft smile, Heeseung knows that maybe he feels the same way.

—

And that’s the end of things. Or at least that’s what Heeseung expects, as the next few days pass. It’s enough that they can manage through the choreography without difficulties, enough for Beomgyu to smile at him across the room from time to time. Heeseung doesn’t expect anything more, nothing on the levels of Jake’s strange new habit of trailing Kai around or Taehyun’s blatantly obvious soft spot for Sunghoon.

That all changes when Beomgyu messages him one night. He’s sprawled out on his bed, scrolling through his phone the way he often does before heading to sleep.

`from: Choi Beomgyu  
woah hi ^^ i forgot we already talked before this`

Heeseung nearly drops his phone out of surprise. He’s had Beomgyu’s katalk contact ever since debut—their combined TXT and Enhypen group chat died out pretty quickly, although Jongseong once told him the 02z conversation was still active—but he barely remembers using it. Heeseung stares down at the notification for a second, his heartbeat echoing in his ears.

`to: Choi Beomgyu  
haha yeah`

He then scrolls up in the chat, reading over the few stilted lines of conversation they had exchanged the year before. Beomgyu’s polite _congratulations on debuting!_ that he’d assumed had been copy-pasted to every Enhypen member, followed by _it’s nice to meet someone the same age as me._ Heeseung had responded stiffly, trying to shut down the conversation with as few words as possible. After that: a year of silence, until now.

Heeseung likes to think that a lot has changed since then. He certainly feels much different—he used to keep everything bottled up, pressure building until he’d implode. Even now he still defaults to keeping things to himself, most of the time, but having the other members around him is a constant reminder of how he’s grown. That he’s a different Heeseung from the trainee who had struggled through summer training camp, who had encased himself in an impenetrable, aloof shell out of necessity.

`from: Choi Beomgyu`  
we were so awkward back then  
it’s easier to talk now, right?

From there, their conversation flows comfortably: from the music they’ve been listening to, to the games they enjoy playing, to random memories and their usual habits. When Heeseung next looks away from the chat to check the time, he realizes that hours have passed.

Heeseung is no stranger to staying up late, just like Beomgyu. That doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s even more of a zombie than normal when Jungwon wakes him up the next morning.

He gets a quizzical look or two from Jongseong as he eats his breakfast. Heeseung says nothing in reply, though, his mind swimming with passing thoughts: all the inane asides Beomgyu had texted last night, his tendency to switch between the most random of topics. It’s enough to power through the sleep deprivation, even.

And that’s when Heeseung realizes—despite anything he might’ve ever expected when he first came to know of Beomgyu four years ago—that they’ve become friends.

—

“Hyung,” Riki says. Heeseung blinks up from his phone. He’s lying on the couch, messaging Beomgyu about different ice cream flavors; they’ve fallen into a habit, over the past several nights, of texting each other until one of them tires out and goes to sleep.

“Yeah?” Heeseung replies. When Riki doesn’t respond immediately, he shuts his phone off and puts it aside. “What’s up?”

Riki bites down on his lower lip, hesitant. It’s the same reticence he displays, withdrawn and held back, when the other members put him on the spot during V Lives. The same sort of uncertainty that Heeseung had thought they’d long overcome, by now.

“What’s up, Niki-yah?” Heeseung repeats, more gentle. He scooches over on the couch, patting the cushion beside him. “Come on, talk to me.”

He puts his arm around Riki’s shoulders as Riki sits down, trying to bridge that gap between them by closing up the physical distance. All the while, Heeseung tries to think of what could possibly be wrong. Being seventeen isn’t easy—Heeseung remembers that well enough—and balancing growing pains with idolhood doesn’t help things, either.

After a few moments, Riki breaks the silence. “Hyung, you’ve been staying up pretty late, recently.”

Not what he expected to hear out of Riki’s mouth, but—it’s not like he’s _wrong._ “Yes, I have,” Heeseung says slowly. He’s still staring at the worried little furrow between Riki’s eyebrows as he sifts through the possibilities: One of the other members bothering their maknae? Homesickness, again?

“But, hyung,” Riki continues. He leans into Heeseung’s side and continues in a whisper. “You haven’t played games with me in a while.”

Oh—but of course. Why didn’t he realize?

There’s a wave of crashing disappointment followed by relief. Because while Heeseung should’ve accounted for this, should’ve known he couldn’t just start a new habit without some adjustments in return, at least this is something that he knows how to fix.

“We can play right now, if you want,” Heeseung offers. “How’s that sound?”

Riki thinks over it for a moment, then nods. “Sure,” he replies. Heeseung’s in the middle of shooting off a message to Beomgyu— _i gotta go niki wants to play fifa with me haha_ —when Riki adds, hushed: “Is it because you have a girlfriend?”

Heeseung lets go of his phone in shock; thankfully, it just lands in his lap. “ _Girlfriend?_ ” he repeats incredulously. There’s something about the sheer inexplicability of it, how completely far off Riki is from the truth, that renders him speechless. “Literally when would I—how—that isn’t even _possible—_ ”

Riki just looks at him, unfazed. “I was just asking, hyung,” he says. “The way you were looking at your phone was, like”—he makes a vaguely disgusted sound—“like maybe it had the secret to happiness, or something.”

As soon as they pull out the controllers, Riki seems to forget about the conversation entirely, but it stays with Heeseung for much longer. He wonders what Riki might’ve meant by _the secret to happiness,_ wishes that finding such a thing could really be possible to begin with. Heeseung goes to bed earlier that night than he has during the rest of the past week, but stares up into the darkness instead of falling asleep.

He’s nearly content right now, he realizes. So what about the secret to happiness? Right now—with his members, with his friends, with the work they’re doing with the new subunit—Heeseung likes to think he’s beginning to construct that reality for himself.

—

It became difficult for Heeseung about a year and a half into his time as a trainee. He remembers that period so specifically because, in retrospect, it had cleaved his time spent at BigHit nearly into two. If he had been poetic, maybe he would’ve called it a turning point. But Heeseung couldn’t feel poetry at the time, could barely imagine his dreams past the fog of his mistakes.

Despite more than a year having gone by, the new group that’d been formed right as he joined the company still hadn’t made their debut. Heeseung was beginning to fear he’d never even have that chance.

The alternative, of course, was worse: giving up, returning to his everyday life as a student, but for what? He’d been a mediocre student, only obsessively focused on what he had a passion for. And music, that feeling as he sung his heart out, the way it flowed through him as he danced—he could never willingly let go of that. It’d have to be ripped out of his hands first.

He was starting to think that it might. At that moment—two in the morning, quiet in the secondary practice room—he had been achingly aware of his body’s limits, of where he was insufficient.

It’s been a long time since then. The worst of Heeseung's trainee ordeals have mostly faded away by now, fuzzy fragments instead of vivid memories. Maybe he would've forgotten this moment, too, if not for what followed right after:

The door opened with a loud click. Heeseung looked up, surprised. Usually the other trainees had left by then, chasing hours of sleep that he was willing to forsake.

Heeseung’s eyes widened in recognition. “Yeonjun-hyung,” he said breathlessly, standing up to greet him.

“Oh, Heeseung-ah,” Yeonjun replied, startled. “I didn’t realize someone was inside here.” A pause, then, “How’s it been?”

Such an innocuous question, yet it presented such a range of answers. Sometimes the rankings could sustain Heeseung through a couple of weeks; other times he felt so stagnant, so _still,_ that he longed for any sort of change.

Heeseung shrugged. “So-so,” he said. “Not bad, but not good either.”

Yeonjun raised his eyebrows. “Surprising, coming from the number one trainee.”

“That’s not—I’m not—” Heeseung fumbled to reply, embarrassed to hear the words _number one trainee_ coming from Choi Yeonjun himself. It made him even more aware that his skill still had leaps and bounds to grow. “I still have a lot of work to do. A lot to improve on.”

“Relax, I was teasing you,” Yeonjun said, offering a reassuring smile. “Honestly—placing first, being number one—that doesn’t even matter that much, in the end.”

Heeseung frowned, skeptical. “Really, hyung?”

At the time he had known so little. The trainees were beginning to keep their distance, only approaching him as someone to give advice instead of someone to befriend. In gaining so much, he would soon lose other invaluable things, too.

“There can only be one person at the top,” Yeonjun continued. One of the truest things Heeseung has ever known. “But at the end of the day, you’ll have to debut in a group. You can’t do anything alone”—Yeonjun gestured at the practice room, empty save for the two of them—“not like this.”

Yeonjun had been right. And that, in part, is why Heeseung has put so much into Enhypen—not just as a vocalist or a dancer, but as the eldest, as the most experienced trainee. Why he’s worked so hard to overcome the natural barriers set in place by age and the inorganic barriers that had resulted from I-Land.

Because Heeseung remembers being alone, remembers his stomach twisting with envy as he glimpsed Beomgyu laughing with Taehyun. There was value in being a good musician, a good dancer, but Heeseung had realized then that being appreciated and trusted— _loved,_ even—could be something infinitely more precious.

—

Heeseung becomes more careful after Riki confronts him that night. Not just because Riki had unknowingly peeled away a part of him Heeseung hadn’t given much thought— _the secret to happiness,_ Riki had said—but also because he isn’t sure if he’s balancing everything quite right. He reverts back to focusing more of his attention on the other members, even going so far as to ask Jake if he’s been doing a good job at it one night.

Jake had given him a sympathetic look. “You’re doing fine, hyung,” he’d said, frowning with genuine concern. He’d inexplicably followed that up with a hug that Heeseung didn’t quite know how to reciprocate, so Heeseung figured everything was fine.

Everything’s fine, except—he’s starting to realize some things. Starting to wonder if feeling Beomgyu’s stare as acutely as an actual touch might mean something, starting to rethink whether Riki had been so off the mark when he’d asked Heeseung about dating.

Jungwon once said that Heeseung was the best at keeping secrets, even hiding his own thoughts from the members. What Jungwon never realized is that Heeseung keeps those same thoughts from himself, sometimes. For so long, pushing things aside had been the only way to persist, a survival mechanism forged out of necessity.

But now, with every stupid joke Beomgyu sends him, with every teasing smile sent his way, with every Brawl Stars game and typing contest, Heeseung can feel that construct shattering as he reveals more and more of himself.

It’s a scary thing, a new thing—but he wants it, nonetheless. Heeseung just doesn’t know if that’s something he _can_ want in the first place.

—

“Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu says, tugging at his shirtsleeve. They’re sitting on the practice room floor, watching as Kai and Sunghoon film a TikTok together against the mirrors. “Come to the lounge with me, I’m bored.”

Rehearsals have finished for the day. Heeseung assesses the practice room—Jongseong filming Sunghoon and Kai dancing, Taehyun and Jake talking against the other wall—and figures he isn’t missing anything. “Sure, let’s go.”

Heeseung isn’t as familiar with the artist’s lounge in the new BigHit building—they only moved locations a month ago—but Beomgyu seems right at home as he rifles through the shelves for a snack.

“Guess what I found the other day?” Beomgyu says over his shoulder. He doesn’t continue his train of thought until he’s found what he’s searching for. “Look.” He holds up two White Heim snacks, beaming triumphantly.

“Here, have one.” Beomgyu joins him on the couch, handing him a blue foil-wrapped package.

Heeseung unwraps the cookies slowly. He barely remembers the last time he’s had one of these White Heim wafers. He prefers the Choco flavor, had even gone so far as to give his share of the snack to—

He looks up in surprise once he realizes. Beomgyu still hasn’t opened his portion of wafers yet. He’s watching Heeseung intently, seeming almost expectant.

It’s just a coincidence; it must be. Almost a year has passed, there’s no way, Heeseung thinks. Except:

“Do you remember—” Beomgyu starts. He laughs sheepishly. “Ah, nevermind.” He finally starts to eat the wafer, holding the cookie to his mouth like a harmonica.

Yes. Yes, Heeseung remembers. It had been the first time Heeseung ran into Beomgyu after officially debuting in Enhypen. Beomgyu had congratulated him and the other Enhypen members on their debut and rookie wins, and they’d given him a package of White Heim cookies in return. He takes a couple moments to try a bit of the wafer—yeah, he still prefers the Choco flavor—before he speaks.

“You know,” he says lightly, watching Beomgyu’s face carefully, “I think we gave one of these to a TXT member a while back.” He pauses, hoping that keeping blank-faced will actually work in his favor for once. “I think it was Soobin-hyung? Maybe Yeonjun-hyung?”

Understanding dawns on Beomgyu’s face, and he grins. “Yah,” he says, batting at Heeseung’s shoulder. “So you _do_ remember. I should’ve known that you’d never forget me.”

Heeseung swallows. Of course he didn’t forget, _couldn’t_ forget. Beomgyu had waved the White Heim cookies in the air triumphantly, as if they were something much more precious than mere wafers, and promised he'd show it off to his fans on V Live. At the time, it had seemed facetious. Now Heeseung knows better, knows that Beomgyu had meant every word he’d told them.

Instead of saying any of this, Heeseung switches topics. “Are you going to tell me what you were laughing about earlier?” he asks.

First thing that morning, Heeseung had entered the practice room only to be greeted by Beomgyu bursting into laughter. All Beomgyu had said in response to his questions was _I’ll tell you later,_ and, in the midst of rehearsals, he’d nearly forgotten about it.

“Oh, that.” Beomgyu rubs the back of his neck. “I mean, isn’t it obvious?” They blink at each other. Clearly not, then. “I was just, um, _surprised_ by your hat,” Beomgyu continues.

“What?” Heeseung adjusts his beanie self-consciously. “It’s _cute._ ”

He wears a different beanie or baseball cap almost every day, but he’s never received this type of reaction from Beomgyu; he isn’t even sure what distinguishes today’s hat from the other ones in his collection. Jongseong had given it to him for his birthday this year, declaring it an appropriate successor to the leopard print beanie that had been beginning to wear out.

“If you say so.” Beomgyu struggles to keep a straight face. “I mean—it’s not _bad,_ Heeseung-ah, the patterns are just—”

Heeseung _likes_ the crazy orange-green tie-dye, actually. “Here,” Heeseung interrupts, not wanting to hear any more slander against his fashion choices. He takes the hat off, tossing it onto the cushion next to him. “Is this better, Beomgyu-yah?”

“Hm,” Beomgyu says, pursing his lips in consideration. He scoots closer to Heeseung on the couch, then reaches out to ruffle Heeseung’s bangs. “Let’s get rid of the hat hair, at least.”

“Okay,” Heeseung agrees, a little taken aback with surprise. He doesn’t expect Beomgyu’s touch to feel so soft. Heeseung holds still as Beomgyu’s fingers card gently through his hair, rearranging the strands back into place. Beomgyu stays silent with concentration, and that makes every movement even more excruciating. It’s too much, Heeseung thinks, closing his eyes.

Beomgyu clears his throat. “You look decent, I guess,” he says, backing away. Heeseung blinks his eyes open and stares at Beomgyu, who smiles back at him easily, casually—unaffected and unknowing.

Stop reading too much into it, he tells himself. It’s not a big deal. But for a moment, the careful, quiet tenderness of Beomgyu’s touch seemed like such an obvious secret.

—

By the time they fly out to shoot their new music video, Heeseung’s close enough to Beomgyu that Jongseong doesn’t even seem surprised when he asks to swap airplane seats so that they can sit together.

Granted, Jongseong does point out the obvious: “What’s happened to you?” he asks that morning, as they pack for the flight. He shakes his head. “I swear you two were going to beat each other up, like, a month ago.”

“It isn’t deep, Jongseong-ah,” Jake replies from the other side of the room, sparing Heeseung from the embarrassment. “Heeseung-hyung just found someone he can spam Brawl Stars with. Right, hyung?”

Well, it _is_ really nice to play Brawl Stars with Beomgyu, so Heeseung keeps his mouth shut and nods along anyway. No one needs to know about how he’s branded Beomgyu’s laughter to his memory, forever chasing after a hint of that bright smile.

The plane ride, for the most part, is uneventful. Beomgyu shares his earbuds with him—when Heeseung told Beomgyu he’d lost his own pair of headphones yet again, Beomgyu merely stared at him and said, “I can’t believe Taehyun thinks _I’m_ an airhead”—and they listen to music together for the first hour. The songs Beomgyu plays, a relaxing mix of slow, sad western pop interspersed with Korean ballads, eventually lull him to sleep.

Heeseung isn’t sure how much time has passed when he blinks his eyes open again. Somehow he’d slumped over in his sleep, resting his head on Beomgyu’s shoulder instead of leaning back against his own seat. He blames all of their late night conversations for raising his susceptibility towards napping during small stretches of time.

Beomgyu’s bony shoulders are far from comfortable, and Heeseung’s pretty sure his neck will cramp if he continues to sit in this position. Despite that, however, he stays right where he is, feigning sleep. Closes his eyes and evens out his breathing, all in hopes of savoring the contact for a few more precious minutes.

Perhaps Heeseung imagines this part, what happens next. His eyes are closed, after all, and the touch is gentle—as light and fleeting as a dropped feather. But Beomgyu strokes the top of his hair, soft and brief. And in that moment, Heeseung feels more than just content—he’s happy, too.

—

“Let’s do rock paper scissors,” Taehyun announces as soon as they enter the hotel room. He kicks off his shoes, setting them against the wall carefully, then begins to stride right inside. “Winner takes the single bed, yeah?”

“Sounds good,” Heeseung replies, looking over the two double beds and peering into the bathroom for a second. It’s a lot smaller than the space Enhypen takes up when they all sleep in the same room, but this time the members have split into two groups: Taehyun and Beomgyu with him, and the rest in the room across the hall.

Hotel rooms always make things feel changed, almost new. There’s something about how pristine everything is—the perfectly flat bedspread, the neat, tidy desk—that seems like a blank slate, an open possibility. Heeseung shivers at the thought, sneaking a peak at Beomgyu out of the corner of his eye. Beomgyu is whispering something to Taehyun, hushed and low so that Heeseung’s ears can’t pick it up.

It isn’t a surprise to anyone, least of all Heeseung, when Taehyun beats them both at rock paper scissors.

“As expected of Taehyun,” Beomgyu says. It sounds a bit odd—Heeseung’s used to the fond frustration that appears in Beomgyu’s voice when he actually tries to beat Taehyun at a game, but this isn’t it. Maybe Beomgyu wants—

Then again, maybe Heeseung is just overthinking it. “As expected,” he echoes, a beat late.

Taehyun shrugs. “Whatever.” He sets his bags down by the side of his bed then turns right back around, clearly intending to leave. “I’m going to go check out Sunghoon’s room, bye for now.”

Heeseung watches as Beomgyu mouths the phrase _Sunghoon’s room_ to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. He finds it a little ridiculous, too—it’s been a long day of travel, and they even filmed a bit of variety content on the drive from their airport to the hotel.

“Is it okay if I take the first shower, Beomgyu-yah?” Heeseung asks after Taehyun clicks the door shut. He opens his suitcase, beginning to dig for pajamas, namely his trusty shirt of the week. “I’m tired.”

“Yeah, of course,” Beomgyu replies, sitting down on their bed. “Didn’t get enough rest napping on the plane?”

Heeseung freezes for a second, hand still tangled in the ripped, hot pink hoodie that Jongseong had so artfully destroyed for him a year ago. When he looks up, Beomgyu’s smiling back at him—the same teasing smile made more devastating by the fact that it’s just the two of them here. Alone, in a hotel room.

“You say that like I haven’t been sleeping past three in the morning most nights,” Heeseung says finally. _Thanks to you,_ he doesn’t add, although he supposes it’s implied anyway.

Heeseung manages to find the shirt he’s been looking for and heads to the bathroom without another word. His mind churns with all the things he’s been holding back. He knows there’s something more here, can taste it in the air—that lingering anticipation, that feeling of knowing that something will _happen_ but not knowing how or when—but he’s never allowed himself to consider it for more than a couple of moments.

Here’s the thing: Heeseung has dealt with crushes before. He’d been mildly infatuated with the girl who sat in front of him in middle school homeroom; as a trainee, he’d realized his feelings for Yeonjun went beyond the usual admiration.

But nothing feels like this. No one has ever looked at him—has ever _seen_ him—as clearly and carefully as Beomgyu does.

—

“Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu whispers loudly. “Are you asleep?”

“Maybe I would be, if you didn’t roll around so much,” Heeseung replies. The truth is, it’s still much too early in the night for him to doze off so quickly. He can’t even bring himself to feel surprised that Taehyun isn’t back yet.

“Yah.” Heeseung hears the rustling of blankets as Beomgyu turns over to face him. “It’s just that I can’t fall asleep.” Heeseung can’t make out much of Beomgyu’s face, given how dark the room is with the lights out, but just the suggestion of his presence—outlined by the shadows—is enough.

He swallows. “Me neither,” he admits.

It’s excruciating, sharing a bed with Beomgyu like this, making sure they don’t touch any time he shifts his position. Heeseung's been aware of distance before: the metaphorical kind, like the gap between him and his goals, and the physical kind, such as when he'd been waiting for the last bit of his growth spurt to push him over the 180cm mark. Even so, it had never felt like this—like the couple of centimeters left between Beomgyu’s body and his form a yawning chasm he can’t breach.

Beomgyu hums. “Come on, ask me something, then.” Their default way to pass the time late at night, when they’re still in the mood to message one another but have meandered through most topics already.

“I’m starting to run out of good questions, Beomgyu-yah,” Heeseung replies, already trying to come up with something new. He’s still curious about so many things. But, with most questions he has, he’s either too afraid to ask or doesn’t even know where to start.

“I’ll ask, if you want,” Beomgyu offers. After a pause he says, easily, “Is there a reason why you used to avoid me?”

Heeseung’s breath catches in his chest. He runs his hand over the surface of the bedspread, trying to maintain his composure. “Oh, that.”

“I’ve been thinking about it, Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu continues, voice low and quieter than usual. “You’ve trained for a while, right? Longer than I did, even.”

“Yeah, I did,” Heeseung replies. His heartbeat sounds so loud in his chest, completely at odds with Beomgyu’s hushed voice or the still, tranquil hotel room.

“You’re pretty close with Taehyun, too, but—I honestly don’t remember seeing you around that much.” Perhaps that would sting, if Heeseung didn’t know that Beomgyu’s obliviousness to his existence was, for the most part, something of his doing. It just reminds him that his avoidance had been successful.

“Maybe you just forgot about it,” Heeseung suggests weakly.

Beomgyu moves closer to him. He can sense Beomgyu’s body heat, longs to reach for that warmth. Instead, he forces himself into stillness; they don’t touch.

“But I wouldn’t have forgotten, if it was you,” Beomgyu states, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “We’re the same age and everything, but I barely even knew you existed.”

“I—it’s nothing,” Heeseung replies. He searches for a reasonable explanation. “You must’ve been busy.” That, at least, was true enough.

“Maybe so.” Beomgyu stays silent for a bit. “Are you going to tell me, though?” he adds, more uncertain than before.

Heeseung remembers what Jungwon had said to him about keeping secrets and speaking like an interview, recognizes how Beomgyu had broken that down for him. Sometimes the truth can be the simplest thing.

“I hated you,” Heeseung says. It surprises him, how easy it is for the words to come out once he starts to speak. “I was just jealous, alright? I longed to debut, too.” He waits a couple seconds for Beomgyu to respond, then rolls over when he hears nothing, turning away to face the opposite wall.

“I’m just surprised,” Beomgyu says finally. “I’ve always seen you as so capable, I’d never thought that… I didn’t know you back then.”

Heeseung sighs. “This is so _embarrassing,_ ” he says. His mind’s still caught between mortification and the warm thrill of Beomgyu’s words: _I’ve always seen you as capable._

“That’s not even that bad, Heeseung-ah.” Beomgyu inches closer to him. “Everyone’s like that when they’re trainees,” he continues, nearly speaking into the back of Heeseung’s head.

If Heeseung turned over, they’d touch. He’s never felt more exposed, almost vulnerable. It’s exhilarating; he hates it and craves it in equal measure.

“How about I tell you something, too, to even it out?” Beomgyu says.

“Sure,” Heeseung replies, curiosity overriding everything else.

“In middle school,” Beomgyu begins. “In middle school—I sang a song to confess to my crush, and I got rejected.”

It’s so incredibly anticlimactic that Heeseung has to laugh. As expected of Beomgyu and his tangents, really. At least it leeches all the tension away, leaving behind nothing but the two of them and an awkward pubescent memory. “What, she didn’t like your singing?” Heeseung teases, smiling against the side of his pillow.

Beomgyu’s breath fans out against his neck. “Well,” Beomgyu continues slowly. “He was the lead vocalist of a band, so I guess he had high expectations.”

It shouldn’t shock him as much as it does, and yet—

And yet—Heeseung isn’t smiling anymore. “So you like guys,” he says blankly. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. Yet there’s a difference between a misinterpreted touch and hearing the words out loud. A distinction to be made between walking the line between friends and something more, and crossing it altogether.

“Well, both, I guess. But yeah.”

Heeseung vaguely registers Beomgyu shifting away from him, a slight decrease in temperature. He can see a hundred different ways this conversation could end up going, and he doesn’t know which path he should take. “Thank you for telling me,” Heeseung replies.

Beomgyu laughs, a quiet exhale: the sound of relief. “You don’t have to sound so _awkward_ about it, Heeseung-ah.”

“I’m not being awkward, this is just what I’m like—”

Their hotel door opens, thrusting them both into abrupt silence. Taehyun’s similarly quiet as he steps inside. “Can’t believe they’re both asleep already,” Heeseung hears him mumble under his breath. Even once Taehyun shuts himself in the bathroom for a shower, leaving the two of them alone, they don’t speak again.

Heeseung stares up at the ceiling, unseeing. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time.

—

As always, shooting the music video is hectic; it doesn’t leave a lot of time for Heeseung to consider what had occurred the night before. But when he does have a spare minute to think about it, he remembers Beomgyu and his tentative closeness and his warm voice. Heeseung remembers, and he anticipates.

Even just looking at Beomgyu, though, makes him feel flustered. They don’t film any choreography today, just individual shots, and Heeseung’s grateful for the time spent away from Beomgyu.

The day passes by easily enough. There’s only one moment that gives him any pause. After dinner, as they’re heading back to the hotel rooms, Jongseong taps on his shoulder and pulls him aside.

“Heeseung-hyung,” he says, waiting until the rest of the members have gone down the hallway to continue speaking. “So.” Jongseong’s frowning, and he looks generally as if he accidentally bit on a lemon. “It’s about Beomgyu-hyung.”

Heeseung squints at him. It’s not exactly the conversation he expected to be having in the middle of a hotel hallway. “What about him?”

Jongseong clears his throat. “It’s none of my business”—not that that’s ever really stopped him before, Heeseung thinks—“but. I hope you know what you’re doing with him.”

“Uh, Jongseong-ah,” Heeseung says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t really understand what you’re talking about.”

Jongseong sighs in exasperation. “Look, don’t make me say it,” he continues. Heeseung has never felt more discomfited by someone else’s discomfort before. “I don’t even _want_ to know what goes on—”

Once Heeseung realizes what Jongseong’s trying to imply, he wishes that he hadn’t stepped aside for this conversation in the first place. “Okay, I get it,” Heeseung interrupts, rushed. Forget whatever he had thought Jongseong might say—this is even more horrifying.

“Just be careful, alright?” Jongseong concludes.

“Alright,” Heeseung agrees, mortified now. For some reason, Jongseong’s awkward earnestness is even worse than Riki’s innocent questioning or Sunghoon’s vague teasing. “I—I’m going to go now.”

He walks in the opposite direction of the hotel rooms, trying to process what just happened. He stares down at the drab patterned hallway carpet, unseeing. Jongseong saying _just be careful,_ so short and succinct when he’s usually prone to rambling conversation, feels damning.

At the same time, Heeseung is beginning to understand that it’s the highest form of trust Jongseong will ever give him—to just leave him be like this, to let him make his own choices with no added judgment.

Heeseung returns to the hotel room to find that Taehyun has already called dibs on the shower; the younger boy exits unceremoniously right afterward.

“Sunghoon’s room,” he calls out by way of explanation, shutting the door behind him. Heeseung has half a mind to follow Taehyun and see what’s so great over there if he didn’t suspect any ulterior intentions behind it. It’d probably be less challenging than having to reckon with this: Choi Beomgyu, a storm in a boy, observing him from across the hotel room.

Heeseung is the last to shower. He tries to drag it out as long as he can, waiting until his fingertips wrinkle up before he finally stops the water.

Beomgyu’s sitting on top of their bed, legs crossed, when Heeseung steps out of the shower. He’s scrolling through his phone.

Heeseung takes a moment, then, to take him in. Beomgyu, a boy so beautiful that Heeseung tried to forget about him and failed, merely channeled that attraction into resentment to give him something to work towards. Beomgyu, whose actions were charming enough to provoke him into irrational annoyance at first. Beomgyu and his damp hair, because he’s too impatient to dry it properly. Beomgyu, who wears a loose t-shirt that looks so soft to the touch.

Heeseung has it bad.

Beomgyu looks up from his phone and smiles. “Hey,” he says. “Wanna play some Brawl Stars?”

—

“I like the way you talk,” Beomgyu tells him. It’s out of the blue. They’ve long since stopped playing games; Heeseung sits at the top of their bed, hugging his knees to his chest, and Beomgyu’s sprawled out in front of him, head propped up by an elbow.

“I feel like you’re always thinking things through before you speak,” Beomgyu continues.

Heeseung raises his eyebrows. “And you don’t?” he asks, the answer obvious to both of them.

“Yah.” Beomgyu reaches out to bat at his shoulder ineffectually, then sits up to face Heeseung properly. His laughter is pretty. Infectious, even. “Of course I don’t.”

“I know,” Heeseung replies. He sighs exaggeratedly. “It’s a miracle, really, that you’ve survived this long.”

“Don’t act like you don’t like it,” Beomgyu says. “Don’t you?” He leans in closer, so close—his eyelashes long and full, his bright eyes reflecting the golden lamplight. Beomgyu has only become more and more lovely with the more Heeseung knows about him. It seems like so long ago, that such a thing could spark some petty resentment within Heeseung. Now he finds a different kind of burning, within—warm and welcome instead of a rogue fire.

“Maybe I do,” Heeseung replies. Beomgyu was wrong, he thinks. Sometimes, rarely, Heeseung _doesn’t_ think before he speaks. He feels irrational, reckless, as he considers the fullness of Beomgyu’s mouth for a brief moment; he wonders if Beomgyu caught the direction of his fleeting gaze.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing.

But Beomgyu must, for he says, “I’m glad.” And by the end of it, his lips are on Heeseung’s.

It isn’t Heeseung’s first kiss, but it might be the only one that matters to him. For the most powerful thing Beomgyu has ever done was remind him that he is Heeseung before anything else. Just himself, plain and simple. But perhaps that’s also the most dangerous part, his greatest fear—that this truth and honesty could also risk the things he’s molded himself towards for so long.

Heeseung breaks away. For a moment, everything is still.

Beomgyu ends the silence first. “Hey,” he says quietly, eyebrows beginning to furrow together in concern. “Are you okay with this?”

Heeseung’s unable to take his eyes off of how Beomgyu glows in the lamplight. In that moment, he wants—so much.

He nods. “Yeah.”

Beomgyu reaches over to the bedside table, switching off the lamp. The whole room is cast in darkness, now. It takes a couple moments for Heeseung’s eyes to adjust.

“Does this make it easier?” Beomgyu continues. Just a shadow in the night, until his fingers brush against Heeseung’s shoulders, warm and sure. Heeseung doesn’t need to be able to see clearly, not when Beomgyu’s right here with him.

“Everything’s easier in the dark,” Heeseung replies. Then, he lets his eyes flutter shut as Beomgyu leans in for another kiss.

—

It's late, late enough that Taehyun's back in their room, sound asleep in the bed next to theirs; his quiet, steady breathing sounds like a metronome counting time against Heeseung’s thudding heartbeat. Heeseung wonders if Beomgyu can feel it too, now that they’re lying together like this—legs tangled, his head nestled in the crook of Beomgyu’s neck.

“This is—it’s the first time I’ve ever wanted something that’s not just being an idol,” Heeseung admits softly. It had come to him with so much effort that he’d never bothered thinking about anything else. In spite of this—or perhaps because of it—liking Beomgyu might be the easiest thing.

Neither of them can sleep like this, but that isn’t the point. Tomorrow, they head back to the dorms, all of them finished filming the music video. A week after, the first teasers will come out. Time doesn’t stop for anyone—but holding onto Beomgyu, Heeseung thinks it could.

“Isn’t that a good thing, Heeseung-ah?” Beomgyu replies.

“I think so, but still.” Heeseung doesn’t want to say _it scares me how much I feel when I’m with you._ He doesn’t want to weigh things down with desire, just hopes to make things okay, instead. “Shouldn’t we think through things first, at least a little?”

“Yeah, we should.” Beomgyu runs his fingers through Heeseung’s hair, as gentle and soothing as waves lapping up against sand. “There’s no point to doing something if we can’t do it right.”

—

Heeseung sits next to Jake on the plane ride back. Instead of dozing off, he tries to think of who he could talk to. Definitely not Jongseong—that one conversation in the hotel hallway had been enough for Heeseung’s lifetime—and even going to Jungwon, logical yet still so overwhelmingly _young,_ doesn’t feel exactly right.

Instead, the first person he seeks out upon entering the Enhypen dorms is nineteen-year-old Kim Sunoo, the one boy who might understand what Heeseung is going through.

“Remember Chamber 5?” Heeseung asks him, pacing down the length of their dorm’s bedroom. Outside, he can hear the other members jostling around, the usual chatter that comes with dinnertime.

Sunoo sits on one of the bottom bunks, perfectly poised and calm. “Of course, hyung,” he says. “What about it?”

“You said that it was important to let go,” Heeseung replies. That time has been on his mind more and more, lately, despite more than a year having passed.

Sunoo nods. “Yeah, I did.” He tilts his head to the side, looking at Heeseung carefully. “But, hyung—this isn’t about aegyo, is it?”

Heeseung doesn’t talk to Sunoo much outside of overcoming his aversion to cuteness and taking selcas. But they don’t need to _discuss_ between the two of them in order to understand each other: a silent bond that separates the two of them from the other members. Sunoo, Heeseung knows, is the same as him: forming rehearsed responses to _what’s your ideal type_ questions, letting people form their own assumptions with a strained smile.

“It’s never been about that,” Heeseung confirms. “I don’t know—I—” He stops pacing, just takes a moment to look over at Sunoo—Sunoo, who is so transparently himself, whose smile shines blatantly with pink lip tint as they speak. “How do you do it?” he asks helplessly.

“Listen, hyung,” Sunoo says, after a pause. “I don’t know how I’d _be_ if I wasn’t exactly who I was. Letting go—it’s about knowing what’s true to you, being transparent to yourself.” More silence, before: “Look. There’s no point in reaching your dreams if _you_ aren’t the one living them, right?”

So, later that night—the first time in a while he hasn’t messaged Beomgyu or slept by his side—Heeseung thinks of what feels true. Not just singing or dancing for the stage, not just video call fansigns or spending time with the other members, but also something entirely different: Beomgyu’s eyes glimmering in the darkness. The curve of his smile. The way his bony shoulder had felt under Heeseung’s head.

Everything seems straightforward, then. Obvious, even. As simple as breathing.

—

“Have you thought about things?” Heeseung asks Beomgyu, at the end of their next rehearsal together. The others have all left, Taehyun giving him a meaningful look as he exited while they both lingered by the sides of the practice room.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, Heeseung-ah,” Beomgyu admits. “And I—yes. I want this, us.” He fiddles with the hem of his shirt. He’s nervous, Heeseung realizes. “What about you?”

“Me too, Beomgyu-yah. I’m a little scared,” Heeseung says honestly. “But mostly I’m just happy.” He pauses, taking in the way a new smile slowly spreads across Beomgyu’s face. “That’s beating out everything else. Crazy, right?”

Beomgyu nods. “Isn’t that the point?” He trails a finger down Heeseung’s arm, shoulder to wrist, then grasps Heeseung’s hand for a brief moment. “It wouldn’t be worth it if we weren’t happy.”

“And this is,” Heeseung says. “it’s worth it.” Just like practicing for his dream, just like anything else he can’t forsake: he puts his all into the things he loves. And this is no exception.

Heeseung reflects on it, on them, as they walk out of the practice room together side by side. There’s something comforting about it, really. For so long he’d just been Lee Heeseung, trying his hardest, burning for a mirage of perfection. Not a born idol, but a self-made one.

It's nice to have this small thing he keeps to himself, something that grounds him. Having Beomgyu next to him feels warm like a hearth, as familiar as his adolescence, as soothing as the sea. It reminds him that, through it all, he hasn’t lost sense of who he is.

The flame that burns within him glows steadily, carefully. But Heeseung knows it won't destroy him, nor will it be extinguished.

**Author's Note:**

> [stares off into the distance] i can't believe i wrote 16k words for this pairing who has barely interacted, but i guess stanning lee heeseung can do that to you... and of course, thank you so much for reading~
> 
> hmu about txthypen @ [twt](http://twitter.com/storyboxed) / [cc](http://curiouscat.qa/axiomatic) and also feel free to check out my [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3y5CQxTPrm7q2tmttKXKDj?si=6LygviwcTiag6kLCSVskpw) / [list of txtha interacts <3](https://permutative.dreamwidth.org/3557.html) / [fic commentary](https://permutative.dreamwidth.org/4114.html)
> 
> comments are really appreciated TT___TT <3


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